


moments of grace

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Drabble Collection, During Canon, Ficlet Collection, For the most part, Gen, Horror Elements, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, One Shot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fill, Reference to Cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2020-10-05 18:50:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: A collection of short drabbles and prompt fills, spanning across doomed Arctic expeditions and the crews that manned them.Updated 7/30:Ch 12 'Last Meal' (Tozer/Little)





	1. I'm Not Crying (Fitzjames/Le Vesconte)

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlet collections are what all the cool kids are doing! But in all seriousness, I just wanted to have a place on Ao3 for the various mini fics that I have written thus far for AMC's The Terror. Check out [my tumblr](http://whalersandsailors.tumblr.com) — I'm always taking prompts!

The two Erebites remain in the great cabin after Crozier and his lieutenant leave—the high anxiety of the day and the bleeding loss of Sir John having stripped Fitzjames and Le Vesconte of their stability, discarded as carelessly as a flimsy raft on a tossing sea.

Henry drops himself into the chair closest to James while he watches him. Henry’s throat closes in sympathy as he sees how the commander has curled tightly into himself where he sits on the bench by the window. James’s hands are white-knuckled where they grip the back of his head as though trying to rip every hair from his head and cleave his skull in two. Henry leans forward so that he may place his hand over James’s knee, and the commander flinches so violently at the touch that a different man would shy away. But this is Henry and James, dear friends and brothers through their years together, so Henry reaches his other hand to James’s shoulder and urges him closer.

James stiffens, initially resisting the touch of Henry’s hands, but as he presses the flat of his palms against his eyes, a pathetic moan punches from his mouth. Boneless and short of breath, he tips into the half-embrace that Henry offers. His covered face is pressed nearly to Henry’s lap, and in deference to both friend and commander, Henry keeps his gaze politely averted while he rubs James’s shoulder.

A few more choked gasps escape James before the man stutters, “I’m sorry, I—I don’t want—“

“Don’t apologize. We’ve lost good men.” Henry closes his eyes, feeling them sting as he sighs, unwanted images of Sir John and Graham coming to mind. “It’s fine to cry.”

“I’m _not_ crying.”

Even through his own tears, Henry snorts, a fond and exasperated smile on his lips as he eyes roll up. “Of course you’re not.”

James releases his face but keeps his head down. Henry removes his hands, giving James distance and waiting for him to compose himself.

The commander’s voice is small, a tremulous drop barely audible amidst the creaks of the ship. “I can’t do this, Dundy. I can’t command a ship on my own.”

Henry frowns. “You’re not alone. Nor are you replacing Sir John.” He hesitates before stating, “It is Crozier’s duty to lead this expedition now.”

James sits up then, his wet eyes blazing, his mouth twisting as he grimaces. “And he is barely fit to lead either!” James deflates once his eyes meet Henry, who offers no arguments, both of them fully aware of Crozier’s demons.

“Are we so lost, James?” Henry asks, hating himself for even uttering the words.

James pets at his hair, suddenly conscious of the tangles his fingers carded through the strands earlier. “Damn it all,” he says with a bitter sigh. “Why did Crozier pick Fairholme for his damned shore party. That only leaves—”

“Me and you,” Henry finishes for him.

James pauses, his mouth quavering, but no more tears fall. There is only a faint shine of wetness under James’s eyes. One of his cheeks hollow as he bites the inside of his mouth. “What are we going to do?”

Henry takes James’s hand, clasping it tightly between both of his palms. “We will manage. Like we always do.”

James sniffs, a subtle laugh that tugs at James’s lips and warms Henry’s heart; a gentle reminder why he loves James with a strength that matches the might of the ice which bears down on _Erebus _and which claimed Sir John that very afternoon. Despite their grief, Henry knows that he and James can lean on one another.

James wipes at one stray tear that slips past his defenses, but his smile is genuine when he looks into Henry’s eyes. “Just like old times, yes?”

Henry smiles back, his hand holding tight on James’s, his tether to the ground.


	2. Plunder (E.C.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual content

Be it locks, lips, or breeches, Ezra has a particular talent of loosening what he desires most, and he does not waste his time once he sets his eyes on his target. He almost feels pity for the young and clearly inexperienced Irishman as the boy spills mere seconds after Ezra puts his lips to his cock, but he abandons the notion as he kisses his thigh, retrieves the boy’s knife—quaintly monogrammed with his name—from his boot, and slides it easily through the soft space between the boy’s ribs.

The boy jerks, a wet gasp gurgling from his throat, his eyes wide and uncomprehending as Ezra leans over him, shushing him with a chaste kiss before he whispers, “I hate to do this, Cornelius, sweet, but you have something I need.”

Ezra reads over the ticket and memorizes the ship’s departure time as the boy’s dead eyes stare at him—their quiet accusation hardly strong enough to quell the bubble of nervous, excited opportunity that is about to burst in Ezra’s chest as he fully embraces the thought of abandoning the filth and fog of London.

“Well, _Mr._ _Hickey,” _Ezra chirps with a wry twist of his lips, his nose wrinkling at the rather unfortunate name he is going to adopt for the next year; “we need to do something with your body, don’t we?”


	3. Use Your Imagination (Tozer)

Solomon knows hunger, its company as familiar as the deep-seated ache of a sprained knuckle. But even when his family hit hard times, never has he been faced with the pressing fear of where he will get his next meal. There had always been options, more fathomable than the prospect now facing him and the others.

There is no sound on the waste save the clink of their spoons against what few tins of food they have. Each bite is slow, flavorless and heavy, but they each try to make the rations last, prolonging the inevitable when the cans run out.

The crunch of shale grabs Solomon’s attention, and he looks up in time to see the emaciated steward drag himself to the doctor’s tent. Gibson is ill, that much Solomon knows, and it is unlikely that the man will last another day hauling.

The surrounding wasteland provides Solomon with myriad concerns, the least of which is the soul-drinking monster that haunts the plains, when the crushing reality is that Solomon may consume the very thing that sits rotting inside the creature’s sour maw.

He knows hunger, as well as he knows what follows next. The muffled conversation of Goodsir and Gibson compels Hickey to leave his place among the men and follow the steward. All eyes, deep-set and brutal, skittery and mistrustful, turn to watch him, a captive audience. Not a minute later, Hickey returns, walks with silent purpose across their camp, retrieves a boat knife from his bed, and paces back to the tent, each step sliding across the uneven rocks.

“What’s he doing?” Armitage says in a tight, quiet voice.

Solomon sniffs. “What do you think, Tommy? Use your imagination.”

Unkind words, though not unfair given the circumstances. The cry from the doctor’s tent is faint, but the echo of it crashes into the rest of the camp, as deafening as a bomb. Armitage flinches and shifts closer to Solomon where they together on the bench.

Stirring his food with the discolored spoon, Solomon contemplates the innards of his Goldner’s tin.

He knows hunger. Whether that hunger will allow him to devour the meat of a man he once knew, that is unfamiliar, something entirely strange and new.


	4. Eigengrau (Thomas Hartnell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **eigengrau (german, n.)** \- _“intrinsic grey”; the color seen by the eye in perfect darkness_

_God does not grant us ghosts, _Irving’s voice grates in his head, piercing and dogmatic, clattering like a metal plate dropped onto a hard floor. As he and Hickey carry the mate’s heavy body to the dead room, Hartnell knows that Manson is not the only one with a ball of ironclad dread roiling in his stomach.

The trek to the dead room is not a path Hartnell has taken before, luck on his side and the undesired task of hauling a corpse to the orlop thrust on other men’s shoulders. It takes five minutes to slide open the door, step over the other frozen corpses, and find a place to fit in Hornsby. A rustle creaks from the gaps between the wrapped corpses, and he desperately hopes a rat won’t race by his feet.

Hickey exits the room first, re-entering the halo of light around Manson and leaving Hartnell to close up. Hartnell’s foot is at the threshold when he hears another noise, loud enough to thump behind him.

His heart starts to beat faster.

_It is only rats_, he reasons with himself, as he turns to cast his gaze into the black room behind him.

His eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the shadows; the lantern too distant to pierce the deep, suffocating darkness. One of the bodies shifts. Hartnell’s breath hitches. The rats must have crawled into the bag. The thought of vermin gnawing at frozen skin is somehow more unnerving than the impossible notion that the corpses themselves could move.

Hartnell grits his teeth, having wasted enough time here, and starts to pull the door shut when something draws his eye back to the center of the dead room, to the apex of canvas-wrapped corpses, stacked in a rough pyramid.

His eyes have adjusted enough that he senses the shapes of the room more than he truly sees them. The bag in the center, not Hornsby but an older fatality from weeks past, turns it head.

_Rats. It is only rats._

The body sits up, a groaning exhale slithering from the head.

Hartnell slams the door shut.

Hickey and Manson flinch where they are standing, their hushed conversation coming to an abrupt end with Manson staring wide-eyed and Hickey lifting an eyebrow at Hartnell.

“You all right, Tom?” Hickey asks, looking more amused than concerned.

Hartnell shakes his head, unbelieving himself.

“It was a rat,” he hears himself say, the words ringing hollow.

Hickey laughs, the noise disdainful to Hartnell’s ears.

“You’re not afraid of those little things, are you?” Hickey’s eyes gleam in the lamplight.

“I don’t like them,” Manson says as he ascends the ladder back to the fo’c’sle.

“We’ll keep them far from you, Magnus,” Hickey crows, nimbly climbing next.

Hartnell stands at the base of the ladder and spares a final glance at the dead room’s door, where it lay shut and inoffensive. The door does not lock, and amidst the seemingly endless Arctic winter night, Hartnell is glad that there is always a lantern or candle glowing near the hammocks.

He does not fear the dark, but as Winter creeps forward and digs her claws deeper into the sides of the ship, he finds that he greatly dislikes rats.


	5. The Small Hours (Tozer/Little)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on FFA, under prompt "100 Words of Late-Night Visits"
> 
> also warning for sexual content

Little is woken from a shallow, troubled sleep when the blankets of his bunk shift around him and the sturdy weight of a second body settles behind him. He must make a discontented noise, too groggy to be aware of it, for the man behind him chuckles and kisses the back of his neck.

“It is only me, lieutenant,” Tozer’s rumbling drawl says in his ear.

The cloudiness is slowly lifting, and Little clears his throat, eyes squinting open, everything invisible during the nighttime. Even the bulkhead of the ship, a mere inches from Little’s face, is engulfed in shadow.

Ever the pragmatist, he asks softly, “Did anyone see you?”

There is another kiss that evolves into a bite at the base of his neck, where the muscle widens into the shoulder.

“No one ever sees me, sir,” Tozer assures him.

Little wishes to turn to face him, though he knows the likelihood of seeing Tozer’s face in the dark cabin is slim. But he wants to share the warmth of his mouth and to brush his fingers against his bearded cheeks. A firm grip from Tozer keeps him from moving, and Little huffs, the noise childish.

Tozer bites his neck again, the sharp press of a canine nearly painful. He runs his hand down Little’s side, pausing at his hip to massage the skin.

“I’ve watch in an hour,” Tozer says, keeping his voice low. “We don’t have much time.”

_We never do_, Little thinks.

They are quiet, as always; careful when the bunk creaks, timing it with the groaning of the ice. Their hunger for each another manifests as hands gripping hard enough to bruise, short nails scratching into the skin of thighs and bellies, Little biting his lip until he tastes blood, a palm pressed flat against the cold wood of the bulkhead for better leverage and to release tension from themselves into the ship.

Tozer finishes first, his mouth open and panting against Little’s shoulder and his hips flush against the back of Little’s legs. Little is quick to follow, his hand stroking and tugging as he feels Tozer’s spend slipping down the front of his thigh, the sensation scandalous and filthy and decadent and _oh_—

He swallows the moan before it leaves his throat, but he cannot help the deep sigh that follows. His head dips down to his chest, his breathing haggard. Tozer embraces him from behind, easing him through it.

When it is over, neither man lingers in the aftermath. Little sits up long enough to clean his legs with a handkerchief, and Tozer removes himself from the bed to redress. Both are silent. Leaving as soundlessly as he entered, Tozer is gone, an ethereal phantom of the night. This is not the first time the sergeant has muscled his way into Little’s berth nor will it be the last.

It is not a liaison that Little should encourage, but he has yet to find the strength in himself to resist the man. He looks forward to these infrequent, nocturnal visits. It is one of the few bearable things in the monotony of life trapped in the ice, so with a deliberateness that Little cannot let himself examine too closely, he keeps his door unlocked every night.


	6. In Dreams (Irving/Hartnell)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt fill for zaphodbeeblebro on tumblr: _When you touch me, my mind is gone. The only words I know are lost inside your body. (right in there.)_

The first time John dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, he did not in fact know Hartnell was there.

John’s mind teleported him to long-gone memories of dry Australia plains — a time he had tried to bury. The lurid landscape cruelly dredged up every feeling of failure that John had suffered. As though mocking that very incompetence, several sheep escaped their pens, and as anguish is the most suitable emotion for a distressing dream, John suffered prodigiously while he tried to wrangle them. They evaded him for hours. The harder John ran and the more his lungs burned, the quicker the sheep became. John was exhausted, and when he could run no more, his legs crumpled beneath him as easily as paper. He fell gasping onto the ground, wishing more than anything that he would wake up. As he lay there, nearly moved to tears, a shadow blocked the sunlight from his face. The man said something to him, words John could not remember but that filled him with something like relief. The man’s hand was cool to touch as he helped John to his feet, and John woke with the sensation that a weight had been lifted from his chest.

*

The second time he dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, they were attending a funeral.

An odd selection of both Terrors and Erebites gathered around a grave, a seemingly vast hole they had labored to dig in the frozen ground. Each man around John was faceless except for Mr Hartnell and Capt Crozier, whose lips moved in a silent eulogy. Vaguely, without seeing coffin or corpse, John knew that they were burying one of their men. The gaping, black maw of the pit urged him forward as strongly as a magnet. He felt himself sliding toward it, his head bowing nearer and nearer, unable to resist the draw of that endless abyss. Hartnell cried his name and grabbed John’s forearm to keep him from falling. John woke in a sweat and rubbed his arm, unable to shake the sensation that his skin had been branded.

*

The third time he dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, it was on the ship.

Mr Hartnell was stripped bare and his hands tied overhead. Cuts littered the pale skin of his back. The blood was thick enough that it looked black under the dim lamplight. John stood at attention, transfixed by the random pattern on the seaman’s back. A disembodied voice called out the number of lashes, and it was only when the whip landed again that John realized the cat was in his hand. The shock of it jarred him awake, his heart beating harshly against his chest. For the remainder of the day, he feigned illness and kept himself hidden in his cabin; exhausted but unable to sleep for fear that he would return to the same dream.

*

The fourth time he dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, it was on the ship.

Gone, however, was the ice and the chill. _Terror _skimmed across a bright cerulean sea under gentle skies, with clouds large enough that a sailor might imagine reaching up and plucking one from the heavens. John did not know the ship’s destination, but their opportunities felt boundless. A childish excitement buzzed through him. The others on deck joined him in his happiness, laughing and singing and crying with no shame. He raced the others up the rigging, the sun warm on his shoulders and the salt wind sharp against his cheeks. He reached the crow’s nest second, and when he congratulated the winner, he reached for the man’s hand to shake. It was then that Mr Hartnell’s face came into focus, and John forgot what he was going to say. Hartnell seemed to understand anyway. His smile was wide, and he switched his grip on his hand, bringing John’s knuckles to his lips. John woke shortly afterward, the dream slipping from his mind like sand, but the warmth lingered.

*

(Most of the dreams did not stay with him, as he observed his daily duties in the cold, damp body of the ship. He indulged drink, more often than he needed. He forewent his studies, more often than he wanted. He avoided Mr Hartnell when he could, but it was not uncommon to find himself pacing the decks in a mindless stupor and wake only when he realized he had been drawn to the forecastle while Hartnell was seated at a table, or that he dressed in his slops and greatcoat under the pretense to check on the watch and had strayed too close to where Hartnell stood on alert. On the few occasions that Hartnell noticed the frequent presence of the lieutenant, John was quick to flee, his mind too addled to fashion an excuse for his behavior.)

*

The fifth and final time he dreamt of Thomas Hartnell, he was dying.

He both knew and did not know this. The pain disappeared as suddenly as it had bloomed in his chest, and when he closed his eyes, he opened them to a bright room. He did not recognize the house, though the sight of the large windows and the worn furniture filled John with comfort. He saw Mr Hartnell seated at a table. Two cups stood steaming before him, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world for John to join him. Hartnell smiled at him, and his hand covered John’s.

His surroundings felt solid, the chair beneath his body, the floor beneath his feet. He wanted to speak but struggled to find the words, staring at the cup of tea instead.

“I wanted to tell you something. But I don’t remember the words.”

“I know.”

Hartnell kissed his hand and then he kissed his cheek. John tried to speak again, but Hartnell breathed _I know _against his lips and kissed him there.

John did not wake up.


	7. Names (Hickey/Tozer)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> completely forgot about this until I found it in my computer files. written as an anonymous 100-word exchange on discord
> 
> (mild sexual content)

He calls him _Solomon_, the syllables thick as honey on his tongue.

Solomon calls him _Cornelius_, and the name falls upon his ears like soot. Arousal overpowers the nausea burning bright in his belly, but his teeth are razors when he smiles.

He covers Solomon’s mouth to keep him from saying it again, and when Solomon comes over his fingers, he stifles any sentimental urge to confess his sins, swallowing [ ] when it rises like bile in his throat.

Billy never learned the truth, so neither shall Solomon. [ ] sighs, accepts Solomon’s kiss, and dies a quiet death.


	8. First Time (Crozier/Jopson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **explicit sexual content**, originally posted on ffa for prompt 'virgin giving a blowjob' or something to that effect

Francis should be shocked, truly scandalized, by how willingly his steward drops to his knees. Equally appalling is how he aches at the sight of Thomas gazing up at him from between his thighs; his pale eyes wide and sweet, the tip of his nose brushing against him, hands sliding up Francis’s legs as though waiting for permission.

“You’ve done this before?” Francis asks.

“Never, sir,” Thomas answers, nuzzling his cock through his breeches.

Francis inhales sharply. “You intend to now?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

Thomas smiles, fingers undoing buttons so Francis’s cock springs free. He leans forward, kissing the tip with a modesty bordering on absurd, given the circumstances. When Francis gasps at the touch, Thomas peers up at him. His eyes sparkle, and he licks a line along the length of his cock, ending at his balls.

_Good Christ_. Thomas has barely begun, and Francis fears that he may spill any moment. Has it been so long since a lover has touched him so? He tangles his hand in Thomas’s hair, pulling his head back hard.

Thomas hums, the smile lingering on his face as he stares at Francis with heavy lids. Francis uses his other hand to hold his cock steady, pushing the head against Thomas’s mouth and cheek.

“Get on with it,” he commands, his voice low, and rumbling with his authority and desire alike, “You don’t stop until I tell you.”

Thomas shudders, eyes fluttering shut, replying with a soft _‘Yes, sir’ _before opening his mouth.


	9. A Little Rain (Crozier/Fitzjames)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for caligularib on tumblr for the prompt 'hold my hand' <3

“My dear, I am perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

Frank shushes him, looping their arms together as they descend the short steps into the garden.

Despite his long-suffering tone, James has a large smile on his face and feels sentimental enough to lay his head on Frank’s shoulder as they walk along the gravel path. The privacy of the courtyard is pleasant; no straying eyes from the street to gawp at the ‘Ice Veterans’ nor any judgmental faces to sneer whenever Frank kisses his cheek or pats the back of his hand.

Frank detaches himself once they reach the iron-wrought table and chairs under the bowed elm tree. The humid air is thick with the scent of a fresh rain and the rosebushes that Frank has come to love as dearly as children. James sits in the chair that Frank pulls out for him, pursing his lips as he watches Frank sit down opposite him with a groan.

James leans onto his elbow, reaching across the tabletop while Frank rubs both his knees and grimaces.

“I wish you would see a doctor for that, dear,” James says.

Frank waves his hand. “Ack, and subject myself to any number of poking and prodding, disgusting tinctures and remedies. I had enough of that when I quit drinking.” At James’s pointed look, Frank softens his face; “I’ll be _fine_, James. It’s only the weather.”

Indeed, the weather has been foul the past week, and black clouds linger ominously along the horizon. The rain has stopped long enough for a stroll through the garden, but James can hear the faint rumble of thunder overhead.

“We won’t stay outside long then,” James decides for them.

Frank only shakes his head with a smile. When James turns his palm up, Frank covers his hand and interlaces their fingers. James smiles, his eyes tracing the ever-deepening lines in Frank’s face or the silver that has long since conquered his hair.

Frank catches him staring, and James looks away with a demure smile.

“I don’t want to be caught in the rain.”

Frank huffs before bringing James’s hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles.

“We’ve weathered plenty of storms.” He sets their hands back onto the table, fingers still twined. “A little rain won’t hurt us.”


	10. Temptation (Thomas Jopson/Edward Little)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3-sentence fic prompt, requested anonymously: _Thomas as Edward's steward_

The temptation is worst in the mornings, when Lieutenant Little sits, dressed down to his shirtsleeves, tortured by the nimble and exquisite touch of Mr Jopson as he brushes soap onto Little’s face and scrapes away the bristles with the razor; the angle as he works providing the lieutenant an excellent view of Mr Jopson’s pale neck and his delectable mouth pursed in concentration.

How easy it would be, Little thinks to himself, his fingers curling into tight fists on his thighs, to reach out and grab Mr Jopson, pulling him flush against his hips and desecrating that lovely mouth until it was bruised several shades darker, split-slick and panting.

One coy glance from the steward is enough to convince Little that Mr Jopson is not so naïve to the his debauched thoughts, and throwing all caution to the window — the remaining suds on his face be damned — Little tugs the steward onto his lap where he will happily stay for the next half hour, the rest of the ship none the wiser to his prolonged absence.


	11. Fixing Your Buttons (Thomas Jopson/Edward Little)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [Gigi_Sinclair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair) who requested joplittle with the prompt **not wearing that**

“You should try it on.”

Little watches as Mr Jopson’s eyes flit to him, eyebrows raised. The rest of him remains still, head bent over his work. He has the lieutenant’s dress jacket spread on the table before him as he fixes the two uppermost buttons.

His looks down again, fingers deftly sliding the needle through the wool as he tightens each button.

The longer he is silent, the more foolish Little feels for making the suggestion. He feels doubly foolish for lingering in the great cabin after giving his jacket to the steward — who had only been extending his help to Little when he overhead him complaining of the loose buttons to Mr Gibson.

_Pardon me, sir, but I can fix that right now._

Jopson made the offer standing in the door of the great cabin.

Gibson made no argument. His arms were full of linens, and he looked irritated by the interruption.

Little had nodded to Gibson to dismiss him and, without a further word, had followed Jopson into the next room. He has since sat here in his shirtsleeves near the stove to ward off the chill. He watches as Jopson ties the finished knot and bites off the thread.

His face colors, and he looks away at the windows.

“It’s only that I’ve noticed we’re a similar size,” he says to the frosted glass, regretting the words as soon as he says them. He clumsily continues, “You would cut a fine figure in it, I’m sure.”

He feels the blush on his face so acutely that he worries that it extends down his neck and to the tips of his ears. His words fumble to a stop when Jopson brings the finished jacket to him and gives the bend of his elbow a small tap to ask him to stand.

Their noses are inches apart for a brief second, and Little can see the upturn of Jopson’s lips. Whether he is being polite or he is laughing at him, Little cannot tell. Jopson taps his shoulder this time, turning him around.

“Arms up, sir,” he says.

Little does as he is told, and Jopson slips the sleeves onto his arms. Little does up the buttons himself and turns around once he is satisfied that his face has returned to its normal pallor.

He starts when he realizes how close Jopson stands to him.

Jopson seems unperturbed by their proximity, the half-smile frozen in place as he brushes invisible dust from Little’s shoulders and chest.

“It was not my intention, Mr Jopson, to suggest anything untoward.” Little’s mouth feels dry and his tongue thick as he forces the words out. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Jopson pauses, his hands almost resting on top of Little’s shoulders. He demurely pulls them away. Little is about ready to retreat from the room, when Jopson tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear and truly smiles at him.

“You didn’t, sir.” The smile grows as Jopson boldly raises his eyes, something twinkling in their depths. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t fit as well as you assume. My shoulders are wider than yours—” This emphasized by another swipe of his fingers against Little’s upper arm. “—and I was fixing your buttons, not your seams.”

Little gapes at Jopson, his mouth hanging open as he tries to summon a reply.

Jopson’s hand remains at his shoulder, his eyes bright and fixed on his. They are close enough that their chests nearly touch. It’s a wonder that Jopson cannot hear Little’s heart for how frantically it beats in his chest.

There is a knock at the great cabin door before it slides open. Jopson gracefully steps away.

“Edward!” Irving stands in the door, his hands curled around a book. He glances past Little and Jopson. “Is the captain here?”

“He’s on deck with Mr Blanky, sir,” Jopson answers, back at the table where he puts away his sewing kit.

Irving thanks him, in that peculiar manner of his where he acts as though he is embarrassed for simply existing in the captain’s quarters, and when he leaves, Jopson very nearly follows him out the door with his kit held to his chest.

“Mr Jopson.”

He pauses, looking back at Little.

“Thank you for your assistance.” Jopson inclines his head, turning to leave again, but Little stops him with one parting request; “Perhaps we could see at a better time, whether or not it fits.”

Jopson’s face is a blank mask when he glances at Little this time. Little bravely returns the stare, grateful that his voice did not waver and his hands do not tremble.

The corner of Jopson’s mouth quirks, but he immediately smooths it down.

“Of course, sir.” He inclines his head again, eyes gleaming. “Another time.”

The door slides shut behind him, and Little barely makes it back to the chair when his legs fold beneath him. He catches his breath before making himself stand and leave the cabin lest Mr Jopson — or heaven forbid, Crozier himself — return.

_Another time, _Mr Jopson said.

Little walks down the narrow corridor from the great cabin with a tiny smile on his face and a spring in his step. He hopes no one notices but himself.


	12. Last Meal (Tozer/Little)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on ffa, under the prompt _100 words of spite_
> 
> **(sexual content)**

“You come to see me off before I hang?”

Tozer smirks from where he sits cross-legged against the crate, despite the fear in his gut or the throb in his head, despite the bitterness that makes him grind his back molars — he is forevermore at odds with the heat coiling between his legs that nags him every time he sees his ‘darling’ lieutenant. 

Lieutenant Little stands awkwardly in the tent’s entrance, where he has relieved Le Vesconte with a few short words and a nod of his chin.

He ducks inside, turning to secure the tent flap behind him. The ropes creak in complaint as he yanks the knots tight.

Curious.

The heat coils tighter like a snake roused from its sleep by the thudding footsteps of a hunter; should he rattle for the lieutenant, Tozer thinks deliriously. Is that what the lieutenant wants?

Little stands facing away. His hands cling to the knotted cords like a lifeline. Tozer watches his shoulders heave under his coat, as though he fights for breath.

Tozer leans his head back against the crate, exposing the line of his neck (how it will ache and stretch, bruise black and blue as he suffocates in the noose). He unfurls his legs. The bottom of his boot brushes the back of Little’s trousers.

Little flinches. Tozer smirks.

“You come to see me off,” he asks again, dizzy with want, dangerous with abandon; he’ll be dead on the hour, so what else can he truly lose; “or have you come to get yourself off… Sir?”

Little doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. He turns around, drops to his knees, and crawls across the rough canvas floor to Tozer who spreads his legs wider, unsure if he’d rather kiss Little or hit him.

They’ll be quick about it, as they always are. The gallows are waiting. Lieutenant Little straddles his hips as Tozer digs his fingers into his chin and around his prick, as fine a last meal as any.


End file.
